Made Of Scars
by Your Angel of Music
Summary: When Qadim attacked Christian, he left a scar just below the jut of his ribs. And Syed will never stop trying to make it better - with lips, and tongue, and touch, and love.


**Title: **Made Of Scars**  
Author: **MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)**  
Rating: **T**  
****Spoilers: **Mentions the affair days and the altercation with Qadim**  
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**Summary: **When Qadim attacked Christian, he left a scar just below the jut of his ribs. And Syed will never stop trying to make it better - with lips, and tongue, and touch, and love.

**A/N:** The idea for this came from a discussion I was having with **Elphie,** so massive thank yous go to her for rambling with me in the middle of the night. I also listened to _Made of Scars _by Stone Sour whilst writing, so a lot of the inspiration came from those lyrics. I know I have several things on the go, but this grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let me go until I wrote it. And I love writing plotless ramble involving lots of touch and tenderness between these two. They just invite this kind of fic. Also, massive thank you to **Jenn **for her tireless beta work!

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**Made Of Scars**

_This one was the first one  
This one had a vice  
This one, here, I like to rub on dark and stormy nights  
This one was the last one  
I don't remember how  
And I never saw it coming again_

_Yeah, cut right into me  
Yeah, because I am made of scars  
Yes, I am made of scars_

~  
Made Of Scars (Stone Sour)

Christian has a scar. It streaks, a flash of white, just below the jut of his ribs; like an arrow nestled on the left hand side, an instruction maybe, pointing downwards.

The doctors were never sure exactly what caused it. Their best guess was a ring, or a watch, tearing at the skin as a fist pummelled into his ribs, ripping flesh with the same force that managed to crack the bone.

The only person who knows it is there, besides the doctor and Jane (who had sat beside him as they removed the stitches, dragging a smile from Christian's drooping mouth with comments about how anyone seeing it is going to be too distracted by the time they get to it to ask what happened), is Syed. It catches the corners of his eye as Christian wanders through their flat in a towel; winks at him as Christian reaches to the top shelf, his shirt riding up in a flash of flesh; and it bumps gently against his lips, on the tip of his tongue, small and ridged and distracting against the nerves that pepper his mouth.

The first time he saw it, was a few days after they became 'official' – not the first night; the first night was about heat and speed and pressing flush against each other, grasping and holding and clutching under a cloud of fear that they'd wake up and it would all be back to way it was before. No. It was the second day, or the third day (it all blurs into one). Syed remembers. The stark sudden realisation of something new, of something that doesn't belong; Syed prided himself on knowing every inch of Christian, even then, even when they hadn't been together for so many months, and this thing, it wasn't a part of Christian, at least, it hadn't been when Syed last knew him.

He'd known. He'd known from the moment he saw it. It was pretty obvious. Sound had caught in his throat, like a shard of glass cutting him off. The pause had only been momentary, tiny, and yet Christian had also known – reaching out, carding fingers through his hair, pulling him up before he can ask, fierce and fiery and full of a silent desperate pleading – _please don't, I don't want to think about it, please, let's not - _

But Syed can't do anything but stop every time: tracing the line with the tip of his finger, soothing the long-healed wound with his tongue, with his lips, like he can kiss it better and heal over the wounds of the past. Because this is the only physical reminder of everything that happened. And he can't ignore that. He has to acknowledge it, to feel like he's doing _something_, however tiny that something may be.

Of course, there are a lot of scars that lie, healed but not disappeared, within both of them; the memory of vodka and pills, for example, has left a scar somewhere on his heart, but it's hidden away beneath his ribs, his lungs, beneath flesh and skin, away from the physical and into something that is both there and not there. And he can't touch them. He can't touch those wounds inside of Christian. But he can touch this wound. He can try and tell himself that he's making it better. And, with each press of his lips against the tiny white brand, he feels like he's soothing some of those invisible cuts that pepper his own heart.

The first few times, Christian tried to stop him – to nudge him away with his knee, direct him further down, or pull him back up – trying his best to stop and forget and ignore. But Syed wouldn't let him. Because, on a purely selfish level, this is a guilt that will live with him for the rest of his life; even if Christian doesn't blame him, even if Christian wants to push it to one side, _he _needs to go through this process every time.

It wasn't long before Christian accepted it.

And now he lets Syed have his moment. He trails his fingers gently through Syed's hair, lying still and sedate beneath the soothing motions of Syed's lips– and now, he even enjoys it, pushing up into the gentle lapping of Syed's tongue, breath catching in his throat, the mark that he wanted to forget suddenly becoming the focal point of feeling and sensation and _everything_. The thing that he hated has become an erogenous zone. Christian doesn't even understand how. He just enjoys it. Because he doesn't care how.

And afterwards, when Syed is finished, he'll pull him up and kiss him, moulding forgiveness into the guilt that Syed still fights to assuage; laying them down together, Syed's back flush against his chest, his face buried in Syed's hair, mouthing noiselessly against the skin of his neck, fingernails reaching around to dig into his hip as he presses full and deep and steady and forward. They should probably talk about it, he knows that, but this feels more right, more meaningful; letting him know with lips and tongue and hands and heat that it's okay, that he loves him, that he doesn't feel that he needs to forgive Syed, but he'll forgive him if Syed needs him to.

And it's probably strange, and odd, and fucked up beyond all recognition, but they learnt a long time ago not to care. It works for them, and that's all that matters.

Because there's a large part of them that wants to forget. It wants to erase and ignore and shun every memory of the time that left so many invisible wounds. And this scar, this tiny immovable mark, reminds them that they can't. It reminds them that they shouldn't forget. They are made of so many scars, scars that they can see and scars that they can't, and each scar is an important letter in their story.

And it's only from those scars that they can mould – wordlessly, with lips and touch and love – a future that's worth something more.

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_Thank you for reading! Just a bit of random musings for you, but I hope you enjoyed!_


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